KNOWLEDGE BRINGS CLARITY of purpose: I am no longer paralyzed. The Chatterbox is smart and cunning; maybe not smarter than me, but I’m betting more cunning. With Gabby and Mel at stake, I have reason to adapt. Given his nature, I suspect he will talk just one minute too long, like the guys in the movies always do, where the audience screams at the screen for him to Kill the fucker before the bad guy gets back up, or gets loose, and turns the tables. I’m betting The Chatterbox will make the same mistake with me, because his inflated ego demands it, his flair for the dramatic undeniable.
The time is ten-fifteen. Sitting on a bench in Hell’s Kitchen Park, I telephone Upton.
His tone is commanding. “Where are you, Detective Fortune?”
“Detective? Does this mean I’ve been reinstated?”
“Don’t be an asshole. Where are you?”
“Can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
“Listen to me—”
“I haven’t got a lot of time, sir, so it’s best if you just listen to me.”
It takes fifteen minutes for me to tell him who to call and what I need for him to do.